You Are
by Secondhand Soul
Summary: "But you are." The three words he needed to hear. She was his, and he hers.


He moved like a cougar, deadly, uncontained, the line of his jaw powerful, broad shoulders carrying the world. He had eyes like a hurricane, tumultuous, the pupil the deadpan center while the irises raged with so many feelings it couldn't be justified. His lips were pressed, always, into a tight line, he never smiled. He was hidden from the world by a shroud of hair the color of the red earth, which cast dancing shadows across his pale skin.

Was he whole or broken? Was he more alive than anyone she'd ever known, or nothing more than statuary? Was he the sun shining down on her life, making the world bright, or was he the soft glow of the moon that illuminated a rugged path? Was he her hero, or the villain that had caused her so much pain? Was he an Angel, or a Man?

She had no clear cut answers, besides for that he was contradiction brought to life.

Right now he sat beside her, close enough so that his thigh touched her knee (he was so much taller than her, almost a full measure), but he was staring into the flames, his eyes reflecting demons, horrors that not even _she _had faced. Far away, he was far away from her now, years beyond what he should have lived, looking so young, but she knew what he was.

Of course, he didn't know she knew.

It had been an accident, when she saw them, his two wings, shining like beacons through the darkness of her life. She hadn't been able to think for quite sometime after seeing them, and could only remember their shape, so different from what she'd always been told. Didn't they have feathered, white wings, soft like the rolling hills outside of her childhood home? Their wings weren't supposed to be so geometrical, shaped like Death's scythe, or cold and blue as lonely ice, sparkling serenely and glowing with an inward light. Yet he could be nothing else. Demons didn't have wings, only Angels.

But how could he be, when he talked about a Goddess who was dead, or when he blasphemed Her Church and its doctrines? Hadn't he said there were no such things as Angels? Hadn't he told her to stop believing in childish fantasies; that there was no hero who would change everything? That Man, Elf, and Half-Elf alike were adrift in a godless world and that there was no cosmic power to save them?

All at once his eyes caught hers, and she realized she'd been staring. His lips twitched into that grimace that she sometimes thought must be his version of a smile, and his eyes became somehow lighter, "do you see something you like?"

She turned away bashfully. The thought of even being with a man caused her pain, after what had happened at the… that place, but she would be a fool if she didn't admit her attraction to him. He was everything that bastard hadn't been, and maybe that was the reason for the draw.

Certainly, he wasn't a very pleasant man to be around, although sometimes he was gentle, and she did see glimpses of fallen nobility in his tenderness to children and animals. He could be very benevolent, almost kind, but that was very seldom; most of the time he was a man of stone, impartial and cold to anyone who tried to reach him, even her.

He suddenly frowned, and his voice lost its joking tone ", you were naïve to think I didn't know. You saw them, did you not?"

She started. How could he have possibly known she was there, that she had followed him when he'd went away, that she had seen him unfurl his wings and take flight. Her surprise must have shown on her face, for his eyes suddenly became very gentle "; I don't want you to think of me any differently, Anna. I'm just… a man. I've never been anything but a man, even if the doctrines of this twisted world say otherwise. If your perception of me were to be ruined because of it… if you were to think me a liar… I don't know if I would be able to forgive myself."

She thought, and then spoke, "what were you thinking about?"

He looked away. His eyes hardened, though not to her, no, they were hard for someone else, "my past."

It was an answer that said everything. How painful and lonely was he? How long had he been alive, feeling nothing, being nothing? "Kratos…"

He looked at her again, this time his eyes filled with longing for something that she didn't know if she could give him. He didn't say anything, just stared, and he knew he wouldn't take it if she didn't first offer. Kratos Aurion was a man of honor, first and foremost.

She thought about him, about how long he had been completely alone, even more alone than her. How had his heart survived for so long without human contact? The answer? It hadn't.

Who was she to deny him the one thing that could make him whole again, that could cause him to feel? She trusted him, knew he wouldn't hurt her, that he was not like _that man _or the others from that accursed place.

So she cupped the side of his face in her hand, and when his lips brushed hers with a tenderness she did not think possible, in him or in any man, she did not withdraw. He guided her to the ground, carefully, slowly, his hands roaming to places that hadn't been touched by anyone who'd had good intent. Good feelings, however, churned through her stomach, coiled like a hot snake, and though she was afraid and uncertain, when his hand slipped under the hemline of her skirt to pull it over her head she did not cry out.

He was muscled, his skin as smooth and as pale as stone, but unexpectedly warm, and his eyes above her shone with desire and, she thought, something that might be love. His lips trailed against the naked skin of her collar bone, and he moved his hips against her. She could feel him come to life, the stone of his face melting away into something that was purely a man, purely Human.

Hands as large and as deft as the hands of a god, he spread her apart, and moved into her. She gasped, and for a moment remembered all the things that she didn't want, but his voice, filled with passion and concern, drew her from the nightmare.

They moved together, and his voice called for her, deep and velveteen. She felt him, not just the sensations he brought her, but _him_, his soul and heart. He needed her, and he did love her, and would do anything, _anything,_ to make sure now one ever hurt her again.

And she loved him. Loved him with everything she was. She wanted to show him he was not alone. She wanted to prove to him he could be a man and a god, two in one, that he could have power and compassion.

He called her name again and again, and she called for him, and when it was over he collapsed, burying his face in her neck, and breathing in her scent as she breathed in his. He was musk, and leather, and wintergreen, and, right now, the sweet sweat of passion.

"I love you," he told her, "I'm sorry for not… that I can't be what you need me to be."

She beamed up at him and made him melt with her words, "but you are."


End file.
